


somebody else might take my place (noncanon pronouns)

by thundercracker



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternative Pronouns, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Interfaction Interaction, Noncanon Pronouns, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5883151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundercracker/pseuds/thundercracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Thundercracker doesn’t know what he is. “Not an Autobot” is all they have, some days.</p><p>Some days, he knows it’s better to be a functioning ‘Con than a wanted traitor. The medic he keeps running into on the battlefield doesn’t seem to agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. when I wake up I'm afraid

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [somebody else might take my place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5538041) by [thundercracker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundercracker/pseuds/thundercracker). 



> The canon pronoun version of this fic is essentially a rough draft of this, with scenes in this version that don't occur in the "original." A lot of editing gets done between that version and this, but feel free to read it if you prefer canon pronouns. 
> 
> Pronouns:  
> Thundercracker- he/him/his, they/them/theirs  
> Ratchet- she/her/hers, they/them/theirs (infrequently)  
> Soundwave- they/them/theirs  
> Starscream- she/her/hers  
> Skywarp- they/them/theirs  
> Optimus Prime- she/her/hers, he/him/his  
> Tailgate- cie/cer/cers or cern

It wasn’t that Thundercracker was a veteran as some younger mechs had mistakenly assumed from his surly demeanor; he had been constructed not long before his trine leader first came online, and his experience was likewise limited. They were simply very good at what they did, and what they did was think too much.

It was a bad habit that he constantly attempted to shake, but after so many vorns it seemed unavoidable. Their mind would wander at the most inopportune times, particularly in quiet moments as they lay on their berth before recharge, the only distraction from their own thoughts being the slow, rhythmic vents softly drifting from their black and purple trinemate. 

At other times he would attempt to busy himself to occupy his processor; often he would offer himself to tasks his comrades considered too menial and insignificant to bother with. He had tried spending more time with his allies but their presence had only reminded the blue mech that he detested a majority of them, considering them lacking in honor with a surplus of unflattering cruelty. After a while he became increasingly reclusive, mostly spending time with Skywarp, Starscream, and—to his trine’s chagrin—Soundwave.

The command center was silent except for the video feeds and occasional commands, but while he was there Thundercracker found it easiest to distract themself. Soundwave seemed ever-present in the dark, lonely room, and the seeker had come to have a sense of solidarity with the quiet mech after it became apparent that they had known about his disloyal thoughts and never intended to tattle. “Thundercracker: poses low risk of desertion,” they had monotoned; it was somewhat disheartening to find out that they simply thought Thundercracker's loyalty to the trine and fear of punishment would prevent him from ever leaving. It originally alarmed Thundercracker that the empath could know him just as well as he knew himself, but in the end the near-solitude of the command room suited his needs, and he had eventually grown to like the second-in-command. They would assign him tasks, simple chores and busywork, and Thundercracker hoped they could sense some of the gratitude he felt.

To his discomfort, he had realized one cycle that those were the assignments he enjoyed most, in contrast to the energon raids favored by the rest of his faction. _Great_ , he had thought bitterly, _now I’m even thinking too hard about what I do to not think_. It was because of the risk, he told himself; he was a Decepticon warrior made to die in battle for the sake of his cause, but that was what he was afraid of. He didn’t allow himself to think about any other reason.

They didn’t think about how their species was driving itself to extinction for causes that had long since changed, murdering those who might have been friends in another life only because of the marks they wore. They didn’t think about how the Autobots—soft-sparked and tame, the Decepticons had called them—were _winning_ , despite the claims that their kindness would be their downfall. They most _certainly_ didn’t think about how the native inhabitants of planet Earth were proving to be as capable as some of their own kind on many occasions, yet they looked at the Decepticons in fear, wide-eyed, as though they felt emotions in the same way Thundercracker feared they did…

He didn’t think about those things the day he realized he disliked the fighting. He couldn’t, even in the relative safety of his room, far from Soundwave's location.

He thought about his trine.

The trine gave him identity and purpose; they were the reason he joined the Decepticons in the first place, not any semblance of loyalty to the steely leader he had only read about at the time. As long as he was with them, he knew who he was: Thundercracker, Decepticon seeker in the most powerful trine still online. Being with them made him powerful; alone he wasn’t particularly special except for his sonic boom, and if it wasn’t for the trine he suspected he would be utterly unnoticeable. That’s how it was before he met Starscream and Skywarp. He was constantly aware that he had been extremely lucky that either of the two had noticed him, though he could hardly admit that.

Their thoughts inevitably shifted back to the one they constantly sought to avoid: they didn’t belong.

No, they weakly tried to convince himself, they were an integral part of the trine now and belonged in it as much as the other two. He wasn’t ambitious like Starscream or straightforward like Skywarp, but he was the one to balance out the trine. That’s what everyone said. He was sensible and—and…

That was the problem, wasn’t it? He wasn’t anything. Everyone else aboard the Nemesis had something about them that made them an invaluable member of the Decepticons, or at least entertaining enough for Megatron to keep them around. But him? All he really had was the ability to fly with Starscream and Skywarp without trying to reduce either one to a scrapheap. And unlike his trinemates, he couldn’t even enjoy fighting together anymore.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t loyal enough; he fought just as well as anyone else, only without the cruel sense of enjoyment from the violence. There were times, though, when he would miss a target he could have hit, times when he might have offlined an enemy for good but flew past. The others could pick off the weaklings, he always claimed. He didn’t want to waste ammo.

He had had some bad days, he reasoned. He was loyal.

Thundercracker was perhaps not the best liar.

 

Thundercracker had thought about offlining for good plenty of times: in the heat of battle, fearing that the next time he crashed to the distant ground would be the last; in his quarters on the days he couldn’t stop thinking, ever aware that Soundwave might discover his disloyal desire for the war to end; as he flew over the ocean and wondered what it would take for him to go into recharge and never online after yet another battle he couldn’t himself to celebrate with his peers.

Laying prostrate on the ground and dragging themself partially behind an outcropping of desert rock, offlining was decidedly not what they wanted.

He had been brought smoldering to the ground by the terror twins in battle after the Autobots had arrived at the solar power generators chosen for the day’s raid. Normally such injuries would be minor, but the jet hadn’t had time to recover since the last battle and was unable to brace for the impact, instead spiraling out of control into another stone outcropping, decimating a large portion of it in the process. They swore that next time they would get a full recharge cycle and refueling in before they went to fight again, an oath they bitterly knew could never happen in the current energon shortage.

Pulling himself behind the larger outcropping—hopefully out of the Autobots’ line of fire—the mech attempted to move his prone body upright and, failing that, settled for rolling onto his back. The leading edge of his wings had been wrecked upon impact and sharp, stinging pain filled his sensor net at the movement. He vented harshly and angled his helm to assess the damage to himself.

The scuffs and shallow scrapes along their body were superficial in comparison to the rest of them. Sparks still flew from one torn wire before flickering out, leaving one servo out of commission. Energon leaked slowly from a nearby tear; not imminently fatal, but they would have to get that patched up sooner rather than later. Their cockpit was—not in shambles, at least, but there were areas cracked and missing their protective glass. Their systems were low on energon; the raid was out of necessity, after all, and the Decepticons couldn’t afford to fuel up completely.

There wasn’t anything Thundercracker could do. It took what little energy he had to take cover, and even if the world wasn’t dimming as his optics automatically switched to a lower-energy setting he wouldn’t be able to patch a leak with one servo. He sent out a distress beacon and commed his trine his location, knowing full well that if they came it would only be after the battle had ended. It would be a long wait.

 

It wasn’t a Decepticon who first picked up the distress signal. In fact, Thundercracker wasn’t quite sure whether the Autobot medic had picked up the signal at all or simply stumbled into the hidey-hole the downed flier had found. She had frozen when she had seen the seeker, though, so they supposed it might be the latter.

“I won’t shoot,” Thundercracker stated plainly, his optics turned to the newcomer. “Gonna show me your Autobot hospitality?”

“And why should I trust you?” Ratchet shot back acridly. “It wouldn’t be the first time I had an ungrateful patient.”

“I'm not your patient,  _Autobot_.” The blue mech was unsure whether to glare or shrug, but found their body rather unwilling to do either action. It crossed their mind that being repaired by an Autobot _probably_ wouldn't be considered traitorous enough to warrant deactivation. At the very least she could stop them from going into emergency stasis. “It’s safer in here than out there, though.”

"You're talking to a medic who actually follows her oaths." The CMO eyed her enemy cautiously before approaching, and grimaced at their wounds. " _Everyone's_ my patient nowadays." With a vent of frustration—primarily at herself—Ratchet kneeled beside the grounded jet and reached dexterous servos between plating to repair torn wires. She noticed with some worry that, though the leak had been small, energon pooled underneath an inoperative servo; Thundercracker had been here for some time.

“Fuel levels?”

“Twenty percent,” Thundercracker replied brusquely.

“Twenty per-! How much when you left?”

“Forty percent.”

Ratchet groaned in exasperation despite the mech in front of her. “Flying under sixty percent is-“

“You think I don’t know?” the seeker growled, but the noise had no venom to it. “Not enough energon to go around. There’s never enough. And my trine needs it more than me. Warping ain't exactly fuel-efficient.”

“A Decepticon caring about another mech?” Ratchet chuckled drily. “What’s that you ‘Cons are always saying? ‘Compassion is the greatest weakness?’”

“ _Unfortunately_ ,” scoffed Thundercracker. “Nothing wrong with giving a scrap about anyone.”

The white mech raised an optic ridge in interest. “For a high-ranking Decepticon, you don’t, well…”

“Fit the image?” the seeker smirked bitterly. 

They stared pointedly at the Autobot’s chest, unable to move either servo with their current energy levels.

“What does that mean to you?” Thundercracker asked neutrally. “Your Autobrand.”

Ratchet paused, caught off guard by the question. “Family,” she replied after a moment. “Loyalty. Equality. Why?"

“And mine?”

The medic vented slowly to delay her response. She didn’t doubt her honest opinion would stir up trouble, but the questioning mech was vulnerable and couldn’t exactly resort to physical violence in their current state. “Deception, of course. Tyranny. Oppression.” She pulled her spinal struts stiff, daring the mech to react and expecting at least a weak roar of anger.

A low rumble came instead, a sort of ponderous humming produced half by the seeker’s engines and half from his vocalizer.

“I guessed as much,” the seeker admitted, and Ratchet, erring on the side of optimism, could have sworn she detected some sort of remorse in the voice.

There was a long moment of silence in which Ratchet searched for what to say. Just as she had thought of what to ask, her patient’s optics flickered to darkness.

“Thundercracker?” Ratchet said questioningly. The concern in her voice was genuine, and the addressed mech made a low rumbling sound in reply. "Stay online if you can. It'll be harder to get your systems functioning if they have to force shutdown."

“Funny how we’re fighting over badges that don’t mean anything,” Thundercracker muttered lowly. “Maybe you remember when this one meant liberation, back in the beginning. Starscream always said yours was peace through stagnation, said it with the sneer in her voice she reserves for Megatron now. The ideaology was too mild, not revolutionary enough back then. She always said nothing would change once you took over, ‘cause you weren’t the ones on the streets. And it didn’t, really. You were always too comfy with your power.”

“That changed-“ Ratchet began defensively, then hushed herself. It wouldn’t do to get a patient worked up, and the moment seemed… intimate, somehow. She had never heard a Decepticon speak in such a soft voice, lamenting the past. It was much easier to hate all ‘Cons when you weren’t being reminded of their pre-war conditions.

“Changed when Prime took over, I know,” the seeker grunted. “She’d be great if she wasn’t always saying change has to be slow. Buncha slag, really. Really showed her when Shockwave took over, good luck getting through that crankcase with bureaucracy.”

“You can’t completely upheave a system,” the medic reasoned calmly, careful with her words.

“Tell that to Shockwave. Tell that to _my trine_ , back when Warp and I and half the faction were on the streets.” The Decepticon’s voice slurred at points, their low energy levels clouding their processor. “Didn’t want ‘em just being acknowledged, I wanted ‘em to be as happy as anybody else. Go back and tell us we needed to wait for change when half of us were starving and the other half were caught up in the idea of hurting the mechs who hurt _us first_.”

Ratchet was stunned into silence by the impaired enemy’s unabashed honesty and emotion. She got the distinct feeling that the things he was hearing were too personal, not meant for her. She doubted the esteemed warrior would speak so passionately to their foe if his processor had been running at higher fuel levels. Not wishing to break the spell that seemed to have settled around the scene, she remained silent.

“'S not even about getting rights now. No point anymore except everyone wanting to offline everyone else,” Thundercracker mumbled. “Why can't somebody just slag Megatron and get it over with already?”

Ratchet blinked. “You… _don’t_ want Megatron to win?”

“He’s the worst. Been waiting for Star to scrap him…” The voice dropped slightly, and Ratchet’s worry deepened when a barely noticeable keen escaped. “Wouldn’t really mind even if Prime did now. Star's getting too scared to try lately.”

The medic waited for them to continue and jumped when static shot from their vocalizer. “Warp…” Thundercracker whined, and shifted his helm to his companion. “Skywarp’s coming.”

The Autobot nodded, taking that as her cue to leave. The warning was rather considerate. But first, she had to at least try…

“It’s not too late to switch sides, Thundercracker. I could comm Optimus now and—“

“I'm... not an Autobot,” Thundercracker protested. “Never an Autobot.”

Ratchet hesitated, nodded, and turned away, only to be surprised by a ping. A comm frequency being sent to her. Accepting the frequency, she instantly received a faint message.

[Thanks.]

 

* * *

 

 

Skywarp arrived minutes after the medic’s departure, faceplates arranged in more of a pout than anything.

“Jeez, TC,” the seeker substituted for a greeting. “You really got yourself slagged this time, didn’t you?”

Thundercracker made a low wordless noise in response, optics offlined. They still had sufficient energon, thanks to that Autobot medic’s foolish aid—enough that he wouldn’t offline—but he didn’t trust his vocalizer after his last embarrassingly honest exchange.

“Alright,” sighed Skywarp, not-so-gently lifting their trinemate from the ground. The more beleaguered of the two slung an arm around the other’s shoulder to stabilize himself. “Starscream already left with Megatron and the others, so it’s about time we head off.”

Thundercracker’s hum of agreement reverberated in the warper’s audial, and the blue seeker could feel the strange sensation of teleportation, one jump after the other, until the world finally stood still. He was dimly aware that Skywarp was walking him somewhere, telling him they’d see him later, pushing him towards what felt like a circuit slab. With a world-weary ex-vent, he climbed onto it laboriously and switched his systems into an even lower energy setting, but one that would alert him to any sudden stimuli.

They awoke to servos on his plating, realized that his damaged limb was merely being repaired, and spent the rest of the procedure in a half-aware daze.

The seeker left the poor excuse for a medibay with a nod and a still-broken wing, hoping that his trinemates would be in a gracious enough mood to solder it for him—which all depended on the success of the raid, of which he was uncertain. It certainly wasn’t mechs-drunk-in-the-halls successful, but so far at least it didn’t seem to be at the Starscream-will-need-someone-to-make-sure-she-doesn’t-get-a-bad-memory-purge-later level of failure. That wasn’t saying much; the latter was only common for their more risky raids, of which today’s was not, and the former had only happened once since the time Thundercracker got drunk off his aft in the desert and swore to never drink highgrade with Skywarp again. (He had broken that oath at the nearest opportunity.)

As it turned out, Megatron wasn’t furious, and Starscream had not made any unplanned attempts at leadership, so everything seemed rather fine. (Thundercracker would sooner face the Prime himself in battle than tell their more cunning trinemate that he worried for her, but he would make sure to remind her to wait for more opportunities rather than attack at the first sign of weakness.)

“So it looks like you’re the one who got slagged in Screamer’s place,” Skywarp had joked in the confines of their shared quarters, each sitting on berths across from each other. Thundercracker smirked at that. “And I commed her telling her to get aft over to the usual slab for the communal boasting-slash-repair session, so we’d better get over there too.” With that, the dark-colored seeker swung to their pedes.

Thundercracker put pressure on a pede and unconvincingly faked a wince. “Oh no,” he sighed semi-theatrically, “my injury is acting up, I’ll just recharge for a while and meet up later—“

His trinemate let out a snortlike vent and stood before him, servos on their waist components. “What are you, an Autobot? Get your aft out of berth. I’m not teleporting you there.”

“Stingy.”

“Lazybot.”

Thundercracker’s facial plates flickered into a smirk, and he finally pushed himself into a standing position. Their one operable wing canted intentionally down, up, down again and gently tapped against their companion’s wing.

Skywarp copied the gesture and grinned back.

They—the two of them, the trine even—had tried to put the meaning of it into words countless times, but the three had agreed that perhaps no spoken language could accurately convey the emotions and relationship that it encompassed. It was used commonly in trines and less frequently in partnerships and friendships. Soundwave had tried explaining it to Megatron; they had offered words like _trust, kin, connection, affection, teasing,_ and _comrade_. The phrases were never sat right with the trine; it meant so much more, something that non-flightframes just could not understand.

The two eventually did make their way to the trine’s usual place, a section of the medbay that they unofficially commandeered for wing repair. Starscream had been in a rather lenient mood, only chiding Thundercracker for their mistakes in the previous battle until the welding was done. By the time she had carefully begun to paint over the soldering marks and other minor, unrepaired injuries on his wings, she had drained the subject dry and moved on to chattering about her latest experiment. At times Skywarp would interrupt with sarcasm or genuine inquiry and—though they rarely did, Thundercracker felt at home.

For now, they had a place where they still belonged.


	2. keep on dreaming, don’t stop breathing

The sounds of blasterfire filled the air, and Ratchet mentally kicked herself for not being able to attend to her injured comrade sooner. Cliffjumper would be fine—Ratchet had induced a temporary stasis, since the bot would be of no use to anyone with an injured pede. They were both far safer hidden away from the action outside for as long as the field repairs would last. The true battle was raging at the top of the canyon, while the two hid away in a cavern underneath. It provided shelter for the medic while she worked her miracles and, technically, she was defending a site of strategic importance, a weak point in the organic geography that would disturb the cliff’s stability if the system of caverns was attacked. It didn’t make her feel any less cowardly for leaving the other Autobots to the battle—she doubted the Decepticons would think a raid through far enough to consider the organic landscape so thoroughly.

After some time working on Cliffjumper’s basic field repairs, Ratchet could faintly hear the sound of pedefalls approaching amidst the distant clanging of metal. Too slow to be an ally rushing to her aid, too loud to be an attempt at a sneak attack. It seemed whoever it was wasn’t aware of her presence. She paused, situated her blaster into her dominant servo and waited.

She saw the sillouette of seeker wings against the light outside the cave, and she fired.

Thundercracker, of course, fired back—but the medic’s bullet went astray, and Thundercracker’s did not. It hit a shoulder pauldron; Ratchet hissed in pain.

And then Thundercracker’s optics were dimming, adjusting to the light in the cave, and Ratchet’s spark pulsed in fear when their expression changed from fierce and wild to—still fierce, perhaps, but focused. Wary. Different than how they had reacted before, many months ago and startlingly low on fuel. They had been weak, doubtful. Today, the enthusiastic shouts of his wingmates echoing above, for once confident and excited at their success, made him feel like more than he had been on that day. Today, at least, he was a Decepticon, processor unclouded by low fuel levels and the words of a savior who should be an enemy. Today, at least, they clung to that label with desperate pride. And now, in the present, they lowered their blaster only a few degrees, the sensors behind their red optic coverings quickly taking in the offline Autobot, Ratchet’s servo on her blaster, the expression on the enemy combatant’s faceplates.

“Medic,” the blue seeker growled, backstruts tightening. They glared and glanced around suspiciously for extra measure. “Are you alone?”

“What’s it to you, Decepticreep?”

Thundercracker dimmed their optics even further—Ratchet couldn’t guess what emotion _that_ was meant to display—vented deeply, and approached. The Autobot’s grip tightened around her weapon.

“If it’s just you, I suggest you leave,” Thundercracker stated, startlingly calmer, and Ratchet could truly not tell if it was a threat.

“Oh? Don’t tell me a mighty seeker is trying to slack off during battle and needs a place to hide?” The Autobot immediately regretted insulting a Decepticon (despite their last encounter, Thundercracker _was_ still a Decepticon, perhaps more now than then) and stiffened. To her surprise, she was answered by a bitter laugh.

“I’m not trying to get myself slagged for disobeying orders, medic,” the seeker drawled out sardonically. “That _still_ isn’t a better alternative than fighting in this smelting war. I’m trying to do you a _favor_ because I refuse to have a debt to an Autobot.”

“Saving lives is part of a medic’s oath,” Ratchet replied automatically. “No medic worth their iron filings would leave a mech to die. There is no debt.”

Thundercracker tilted his helm, then, and Ratchet could see their dentae twitch. “Yeah,” they replied eventually, “maybe.” After a moment, they grinned mirthlessly and added, “But offlining every Autobot we can find is part of a _Decepticon’s_ oath. Seems pretty lucky for you that you found a ‘Con who doesn’t give scrap about things like that.”

After ascertaining that Thundercracker did not mean that as a threat, Ratchet returned to her repairs on the minibot, blaster once again holstered, absentmindedly replying, “So debts are important but not oaths.” The seeker in turn moved away from the mech and seemingly began to inspect the walls.

“Debts can be used against you. They have power. Oaths to ‘causes’ and ‘ideals’ mean nothing.”

“And what about allegiance?”

“Sucks slag. Doesn’t mean anything until you get attached to something, then it’s pits to leave.”

“My offer still stands.”

The seeker gave a low warning growl, actually glaring at the medic. “Decepticons don’t turn traitor.”

“Really? _None?_ ” Ratchet would have rolled her optics if he could.

“Name one ex-Decepticon.”

Ratchet paused for a moment, whirring thoughtfully. “Skyfire,” she said at last.

“Skyfire never took the oaths,” Thundercracker scoffed dismissively. “Starscream probably didn’t even bother explaining what we were fighting for before… well, before Skyfire left again.” Ratchet moved his dentae as if to speak—“ _again”?_ —but the jet continued on. “Once you really have your brand, you can’t throw it away so easily. Literally, too, you know our marks are always either  _actual brands_ or spark casings? There's your top secret intel for the day."

Ratchet tried not to let her shocked disgust show.

"And there's a saying, well, not so much a saying, but basically it goes, 'there aren't ex-Decepticons, only dead traitors,' in case you were wondering  _why_ you can't name any—"

“Those were on Cybertron, not on Earth—“ Ratchet started before the jet hissed and put a servo to his helm.

“Listen, Autobot,” Thundercracker said, tone changing indecipherably as they consulted an internal system. “I don’t care about any of this. It doesn't matter. The fight’s almost over. You should get out of here.”

“Ohh no. You’re not getting rid of me that easily after all that.”

“Let me rephrase: both of us need to get out of here. Now.” He was turned to the wall, fiddling with his subspace now, pulling something out.

He’d never finished saying why he’d been in the cave. Primus, of _course_ he’d come here to bomb the most unstable area.

And they’d just started the countdown.

“If you want to escape with the minibot, there’s still plenty of time,” he was saying, too mellow, as if he was recalling Cybertron before the war. Not as if he was an enemy combatant holding an active explosive about to seriously injure Ratchet’s teammates far above them.

“Thundercracker!” Ratchet barked. “Turn that off!”

The seeker seemed taken aback to hear his own name, but quickly collected himself and tucked the explosive in a large crevice. “Orders are orders, Autobot. Time is running out, and I suggest you take your comrade and go back to your _friends_.” They turned to the bot. “And I have no way of deactivating it.”

The bot bolted to his pedes and rushed toward the bomb. Thundercracker blocked it with their chassis, their large frame impossible to navigate around, and growled, “Medic, either this bomb goes off in here or I have orders to destabilize this rock _myself_. Point blank. And, as I said before, I’m not _trying_ to get slagged here!” Their frame was vibrating, Ratchet noticed. “But judging by the counter, and the way you’re trying to assault a Decepticon, _you_ seem to be!”

Ratched tensed and sneered; at this proximity, the seeker could feel her anger in his EM field. Betrayal, too, which confused Thundercracker. He was sure Ratchet could feel their stubbornness just the same, and with a rough shove, Ratchet turned back toward Cliffjumper’s frame.

“Prime,” Ratchet spoke boldly, servo to her communications unit. “The cave we mentioned earlier has a bomb in it. I can’t defuse it. Get all Autobots out of the area, now. Ratchet out.”

There was a heavy silence. Ratchet hauled the minibot up and began to step out of the cave’s entrance. He paused when he heard Thundercracker’s voice, but it was not directed at him.

“I _know_ it was supposed to have been planted earlier! I don’t know why the Autobots are leaving the area, how should I know? You think I would, what, warn them myself? There was a complication, I had to deal with the medic—yes, of course I mean that one, there’s only one Autobot medic worth her iron filings who can hold her own against a ‘Con—Primus, don’t even joke about that—no, she escaped, of _course_ I know about the capture not kill orders, Primus, I wasn’t sparked yesterday—alright, just shut up for one klik while I get out of range of this thing—“

When Thundercracker left the cave, Ratchet and the stasis-locked bot were gone.


	3. on the fence, all the time

The last raid had been successful but not overly so, and with little progress on the battlefield (when was the last time anything important happened?) the _Glorious_ Decepticon Cause eventually came to require another. A nuclear facility this time, both a blessing and a curse.

On one servo, nuclear power sources were dangerous things. The raiders would have to be careful gathering the energy; nuclear energon was particularly explosive, and the energy was supposedly very harmful to the organics of the planet. (Thundercracker was annoyed to find that he even registered that as a negative aspect, but reasoned that humans’ continued existence did save them the trouble of harnessing the energy in the first place. It was a purely rational conclusion to make.)

On the other servo, the raw flavor of nuclear energon was pit-slagged _delicious_.

Skywarp flew by Thundercracker’s side on the day of the raid up until their arrival, filling the journey with radio chatter and pointless gossip, and the mission progressed smoothly… to a point. It was fortunate that the Autobots, slow to arrive and too cautious of harming the humans, barely posed any resistance; everything had gone well until it was time to return to base.

They had planned on the terror twins attacking.

The shooting once they left the reactor’s vicinity had been accounted for.

They _hadn’t_ expected the explosions. And judging by the screams of the twins, the Autobots hadn’t either.

 

Ratchet started driving as soon as she heard them. One explosion, then two, and smaller booms following. Like a crate of energon cubes exploding.

Or two cockpits full of energon exploding, apparently.

As far as she could gather from a panic-stricken Tailgate (who, bless cer spark, would never do such a thing if cie weren’t such a bad shot when cie panicked), the peace-loving Autobot had fired a few shots hoping to slow the jets down, and, due partially to a streak of bad luck and partially to a moment of thoughtlessness, had fired just as the twins began to angle them to the ground. Instead of minor injuries to the Decepticons’ wings, there was… this.

The twins were in bad condition—compared to the usual battle injuries, at least. Cockpit glass was embedded in Sideswipe’s plating and Sunstreaker would have to make due without the use of hir stabilizing servos for some time. It was a gruesome sight, but not as life-threatening as Ratchet initially feared. Luckily the seekers hadn’t taken off with many cubes, or else the explosion and ensuing fall might have offlined the two Autobots, even with cockpit covers shielding them from the brunt of it all. And as for the jets themselves…

 _Primus_. She could see their sparks.

Jagged metal crumpled outward from where edges of cockpits had previously been, revealing the Decepticons’ greatest physical vulnerability. Wisps of ghostly pale energy were lashing out from their cores, writhing desperately for a stabilizing force to latch onto and finding nothing. Ratchet averted her gaze and focused on her allies.

She had already been in the process of comming every bot able to do field repairs in the area as well as the main medical staff upon her arrival; she talked the twins into emergency stasis, shutting down all nonessential systems, and other Autobots were arriving at the scene to assist. She was fortunate that some were able to clear the area of the enemy Decepticons, who didn’t seem to care too deeply about their comrades’ injuries.

As soon as the twins were patched up, cables welded and fuel levels restored thanks to emergency transfusions (courtesy of Autobot volunteers), Ratchet left them in the servos of the other medical staff and was confident they would live.

She wasn’t sure about the other two.

She had sworn to herself once, though, that protecting the living took precedence over mourning the dead; it was a promise that she would not throw away at the first sight of a violet insignia. A few bots around her objected when she kneeled next to the scorched blue seeker with an emergency kit at her side, but most backed off with a glare. The last few protestors were quieted by the sight of the Decepticons’ blackened spark chambers, electrical impulses leaping from broken wires and processed energon dripping into the recesses of the frames.

The medic had assumed the seekers were in emergency stasis already until she touched Thundercracker’s chassis. The seeker flickered his optics online and rumbled reflexively. Their frame shook with each vent.

“Medic,” he choked out. With great effort, he angled his helm towards his trinemate. “Skywarp has entered stasis.”

“You will too if you keep diverting energon to your vocoder system,” Ratchet chastised. She had begun to root around in the kit, searching for suitable patch metal. “Power down, Decepticon. I’ll get to him after you.”

“I know our limits,” the seeker vocalized, quiet but firm. “Far better than you. They need priority.”

Ratchet gave Thundercracker an evaluating look, perhaps seeking something in their expression. Whatever it was, she was appeased and moved to Skywarp’s side, steady servos disappearing into the exposed spark chamber and setting to work. First Aid arrived while she was evaluating the situation, and the small bot barely mustered the courage to begin work on Thundercracker. Ratchet usually wouldn’t have asked the other medic to operate on the enemy—she would have to commend First Aid’s bravery once she wasn’t wrist-deep in Decepticon inner-workings—but these were desperate times and desperate measures.

Skywarp’s spark glowed weakly underneath Ratchet’s servos. What would have been the floor of a cockpit had been blasted through, and their very essence was exposed to open air. Tendrils of gaseous light were pulled tight to their core, pulsing brighter evenly. It was a small blessing that his spark activity hadn’t gone erratic or entered burnout; it gave the medic time to stabilize his patient’s energon levels.

Fuel lines had been blown apart in the explosion; enough remained of most tubes to bend them back into shape and weld torn edges together. Some had not fared so well, and Ratchet was only able to replace fragments of the major fuel lines with the metal in his patch kit. Nonessential cables needed their ends welded shut so no more energon would leak; it had been a last resort in the early days of the war, but with suitable metals harder to come by, it had become all too common.

Finally, Skywarp’s fuel levels seemed to stabilize, and Ratchet was able to convince a few grumbling Autobots to donate energon for an infusion. A small dose of medical grade energon was added as well, as much as Ratchet could afford to spare on a battlefield where one other mech was already critically wounded. Skywarp’s systems sputtered once the fuel port on their wrist was closed, and Ratchet frowned; the fuel wasn’t being violently rejected, but clearly the Decepticon’s systems had issues with it.

After the seeker’s fuel levels were sufficient, it was finally safe to deal with his spark. First Aid assisted Ratchet with the EMP generator, and—thankfully—a nudge was enough to bring the spark out of shock and return it to a more natural rhythm. It would take time, but it would eventually stabilize and brighten as energon began to flow again.

It was only once she finished her patch job on Skywarp’s spark casing that Ratchet turned the patient over to First Aid and moved to examine Thundercracker.

With an exasperated and irritated huff, she noticed that the seeker was still fully online.

“Didn’t I tell you to enter stasis?” the medic grumbled.

Thundercracker was silent even as Ratchet began to operate—she wondered if it was to save energy or out of rebellion—but eventually stated, “Skywarp is stabilized.”

“Yes,” Ratchet confirmed. “They’ll need to stay still and get plenty of repair nanites for their cables later, but they’ll survive.”

There was a pause, and Thundercracker offlined his optics. Hot air cycled out of their cooling vents.

“You’re shooting off sparks,” the medic noted, frowning, servos pinching shut the other’s minor fuel lines. Best not to argue at this point if the seeker (quite logically) refused to voluntarily enter stasis in enemy servos. At least she could have her patient help her. “Turn on your pain dampeners and reduce the flow of charge in your chassis, if you insist on staying online.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, for— if this is some sort of Decepticon stubbornness, I suggest you stop before you offline.”

Thundercracker tried to scoff, but only succeeded in emitting a painful crackling of static. “You’ve seen Megatron, ah, _discipline_ Starscream.” Another choked crackle. _Discipline_ wasn’t the right word, Thundercracker knew, but now was not the time. “Do you think Megatron’s rule would be so effective if any of his troops still had functioning pain dampeners?”

The silence between the two was sudden and heavy. Ratchet dimly heard First Aid chattered directions at whoever was helping her patch up Skywarp’s more minor wounds, but her voice felt a world away.

“Primus below,” Ratchet swore. “We should have guessed. But Skyfire never mentioned anything about pain dampeners, and hers were functioning…”

“Hook never got to Skyfire,” Thundercracker said softly, as if afraid of disclosing a great secret. A painful jolt of electricity shot through his chassis, and they reflexively overrode another command to enter emergency stasis. “Starscream made sure of that. She didn’t know.”

The medic sighed, less irritation than weariness, and remained silent until the seeker’s final significant leak was patched. First Aid arrived with a transfusion of medical energon mixed with donations from Bluestreak and an apologetic Tailgate. Thundercracker had not spoken in some time, which came as no surprise; his spark had flickered and faded after his last reply, still online but in no state to form a reaction, verbal or otherwise. Ratchet dismissed her assistant and gradually poured the transfusion into Thundercracker’s medical intake.

Somewhere in the distance, Megatron called for a retreat.

“The energon will take a while to circulate,” Ratchet warned. “You should be able to stand in less than an hour once I stabilize your spark. It _might_ have taken less time,” she scolded, the usual vitriol missing from her voice, “if you had entered stasis instead of acting like a stubborn fool. You’re slagging lucky your spark’s still lit.”

Thundercracker did not reply.

The medic was not sure whether he was still receiving sensory input, but explained each of her actions out of protocol. “I’m going to give your spark an EMP now, and hopefully that will be all it needs to reach out and connect with your systems again.”

The tendrils of gaseous light reached out at the pulse and—constricted, tighter than even Skywarp’s had, until the light was nearly just the core.

It was fading fast, darkening, pulling ever inward.

The seeker’s vents choked on air, a horrid noise, a death throe.

It guttered.

 _Burnout_.

But Ratchet was a professional, and professionals were prepared. Professionals— _slagging Pit, someone get the fragging stabilizer, yes, First Aid, I mean you, some glitchhead has been overriding emergency protocols without telling me_ —did not panic.

Thundercracker’s frame shook and stilled too suddenly. The medic swore and nearly threw open the medical hatch on the seeker’s wrist, inputting the command to enter total stasis. The frame shook again, panicked—

“Thundercracker, I’ll bring you out once you’ve stabilized, but right now you need to shut down!”

—and stilled.

More pulses came from the EMP generator, steady now that the frame’s convulsions had halted, and finally the spark reached out, slowly and steadily spreading until it had exited burnout.

Ratchet vented in relief.

It was only once the spark chamber had been patched that Ratchet undid the forced stasis protocol, and Thundercracker immediately onlined.

“Someone doesn’t like stasis,” Ratchet commented.

She did not receive a reply.

“Ratchet!” First Aid called. “Now that the, erm, _patients_ are in recovery and the rest of the Decepticons are retreating, what exactly do you plan to do?”

The question was obvious. _Will you leave them here? Will we bring them back to base? To the brig or to medbay?_ The C.M.O. hadn’t thought that far. They could be hostages, captives. Surely at least Starscream would insist on bargaining for their release, whether Megatron would allow it or not. Ratchet did not think about an offer made months ago, an offer of asylum made to the injured mech next to her. On the other hand, their medical resources were low, and the Decepticons’ sorry excuse for a medic would likely be able to treat them now that they weren’t about to offline.

“I…” Ratchet began, and caught herself. Silence replaced what she had hoped to say.

“Yes, medic,” a seeker rumbled quietly (and how strange it was to hear that rumble with no hint of animosity), “what exactly _do_ you plan to do?”


End file.
